Devil's Trap
by CrystalAlchemist
Summary: Whatever you do, whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, you will always end up…here. Except there was one detail, one choice that was made which, if made differently, could have drastically changed everything else. AU from the end of Season 1 on.
1. Chapter 1

_"Whatever you do, whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, you will always end up…here."_

_Except there was one detail, one choice that was made which, if made differently, could have drastically changed everything that happened after it. Early on, at the end of Devil's Trap, Sam Winchester pointed a gun at his father, who was begging his son to shoot him, to destroy the demon possessing him. Sam hadn't been able to do it, and he'd lowered his weapon—but what if he'd made the other choice? What if he'd shot his father, killing both him and Azazel?_

_If he'd fired, John Winchester would have died in that cabin instead of in a hospital several days later. If he'd fired, the demon would be dead, and Sam's visions wouldn't have continued. If Sam had fired, he wouldn't have gotten caught in the demon's game at Cold Oak, and he wouldn't have been killed from a knife to his back. And if Sam hadn't been killed, Dean wouldn't have sold his soul to save him, and he wouldn't have gone to hell a year later._

_If Dean hadn't gone to hell, he wouldn't have broken the first seal. He wouldn't have left Sam spiraling into depression and thirsting for revenge, and so Sam wouldn't have turned to Ruby, wouldn't have gotten addicted to demon blood. And, having no desire to kill Lilith, Sam wouldn't have broken the final seal._

_The Apocalypse wouldn't have happened at all._

_Or would it?_

* * *

Sam gripped the Colt between two shaking hands, face drawn into a grimace as he held it pointed at his father's chest, who was on the floor of the cabin, teeth gritted, determination flaming in his eyes.

"Do it! Now!"

A softer voice came from the wall behind Sam, counteracting the rage of his father's voice: "Sam, don't you do it. Don't you do it!"

"Sam, you gotta hurry. I can't hold onto him much longer!"

Sam's throat tightened and his heart pounded, his hands gripping the gun like a lifeline. Indecision warred inside him and he felt like collapsing. He wanted to listen to Dean, listen to the agonized pleas to spare their father's life, but another part of him, a part burrowed so deep it felt like it had been there forever, wanted nothing more than to see this demon dead—the demon that had killed his mother, killed Jess, pulled him away from his happy life he'd been dreaming of for years—

"You shoot me, son! _Shoot me!_" John's voice was strained with the effort to hold back the demon. "Son, I'm beggin' you, we can end this here and now. _Sammy_!"

"Sam, no," Dean whispered, but Sam didn't hear it, because he'd already fired.

The bullet from the Colt entered John's chest, and crackled with energy as it destroyed the demon from the inside. A yell escaped John's mouth—though whether it was John or the demon shouting Sam wasn't sure—and Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the last of the demon's remaining life force burnt out…along with his father's.

It was quiet. Sam opened his eyes. The only sounds in the room was Dean's ragged breathing nearby and Sam's heartbeat pounding in his ears. It was over. The yellow-eyed demon was dead. It was really, really over.

Relief now battled with pain inside Sam's chest. He dropped the Colt to the ground and fell to his knees beside it, staring at his father's corpse as tears welled up in his eyes.

Sam blinked, remembering his brother, and turned to look at Dean.

He wasn't prepared for the raw anguish and disappointment that met his gaze. The look in Dean's eyes said, plainly, _How could you do this?_

Now that he'd done it, Sam wasn't sure. All he knew was that killing this demon had been John's only ambition in life, and if he died completing it he would die happy.

Sam got to his feet, feeling numb all over, and approached Dean, who was still huddled against the wall. "Dean, we need to get you to a hospital…"

"I'm fine." Dean pushed himself up, away from the wall, grimacing.

"No, you're not, you lost a ton of blood—"

"I said I'm fine, Sam," Dean said roughly, pushing Sam's hand away as he reached out to help him. As he stood, however, his legs buckled underneath him and he stumbled into Sam, who wrapped an arm instinctively around his back, holding him up. "Dean? _Dean!" _Dean had fallen unconscious, his breathing ragged as he slumped against Sam. Sam cursed and lowered his brother to the ground, digging his cell phone out of his pocket. With icy fingers, he dialed 9-1-1.

* * *

Dean awoke to the beeping of a heart monitor and the distinct, sterile smell of a hospital room. He groaned softly and turned his head, remembering what happened, remembering the cabin, the demon, the pain, the blood, the shot.

Dad was dead.

"Dean?" a soft voice said.

Dean opened his eyes, looking towards the side of the bed where Sam sat, hands clenched at the edge of Dean's mattress, his pain and guilt-filled gaze telling Dean that he definitely hadn't dreamed up the whole thing.

"Sam?" Dean said, his voice raspy and his throat feeling like sandpaper. He swallowed. "What happened?"

"You were…you passed out. I called for help. Are you feeling okay?"

Dean chose not to answer that, opting instead to swallow again, hard, and force the question out: "Dad?"

Dean watched the emotions flash once more across Sam's face—sorrow, guilt, pain, relief, unease, and finally apology. "He didn't…he's gone. I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean felt a clenching feeling in his chest, painful and constricting and heavy. He was gone. Dad was gone. Sam had killed him.

_Sam had killed him_.

All his life Dean had put his family first, and he'd thought Sam felt the same way—that as much as that damn demon had put them through, it didn't come before everything. It didn't come before family.

But Sam had made his choice. He had chosen revenge. And he'd taken the shot.

"It was what Dad wanted," Sam whispered as Dean looked away, unable to hold Sam's eyes. "I couldn't…he begged me to, dude. I had to…"

"Yeah, whatever Sam," Dean said quietly, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispered. Dean didn't answer, a thousand different emotions churning in his stomach—if he spoke, he was worried he'd just end up yelling at his brother, which wouldn't make this situation any better, and besides, Dean didn't have the energy to yell…or speak.

Sam exhaled in a shaky breath and stood up. "I'm, uh…I'm going to go tell the doctor you're awake. See how long before you can leave."

He stood up and exited the room without a backward glance. Dean felt tears well up in his eyes and fought them back bitterly. All of a sudden he felt a great hollow emptiness yawn inside him—a loss he knew he was only beginning to feel.

"Dammit, dad," he whispered, fisting the sheets beneath him. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

* * *

Dean was released from the hospital the next day—a blood transfusion and some sleep had put him back to normal…physically, anyway.

He and Sam gave John a hunter's funeral, burning his body, watching in silence as the flames consumed their father. And then they went back to Bobby's, having nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Neither of them felt up to a case and Sam had no motivation to find one.

They spent the days in tense silence, unspoken things passing between them at all hours of the day through averted glances and deliberate avoidance and strained silences. Sam knew it was only a matter of time before Dean's repressed emotions came out and the accusatory glances were voiced.

Bobby wasn't oblivious to the tension either. He'd taken John's death with a fair amount of regret but had gotten past it quickly, noting that the brothers' need was greater than his.

He approached Dean a week later, settling at the table in his study across from him and handing him a glass of whiskey.

"Thanks," Dean said dully, taking the glass and swirling it but not taking a drink. Bobby stared at him with a slight frown but Dean didn't meet his gaze, which instead remained fixed on the table littered with books and papers.

"So," Bobby said pointedly. "How you doing, kid?"

"I'm fine," Dean said, raising his eyes to look at Bobby at last.

"And Sam?" Bobby said slowly. "How's he?"

Dean shrugged, the warning look in his eyes flashing again. If his gaze had been hard before, it was now positively icy. But Bobby didn't relent. "Talk to me, Dean. I know you're taking this harder than you want to admit. You can't let it simmer like this."

Dean scowled. "Watch me."

Bobby leaned forward, frowning slightly. "You know your brother needs you right now. He's barely said a word all week. The guilt must be eating him up."

"Yeah? Well maybe he asked for it."

"You know you don't really believe that."

"Don't I?" Dean's jaw worked. "He made the choice, Bobby, and he chose revenge over his own father. How am I supposed to trust him now?"

"Sam didn't make that choice, not really. This was what John wanted. Sam did exactly what John told him to. Put yourself in Sam's shoes—what would you have done?"

"I would have found another way!"

"Even if that same demon had killed _your_ girlfriend and pulled _you_ out of the life _you_ wanted? Killing that demon was what had consumed John his whole life, and it was consuming Sam, too. Maybe now Sam can truly heal, but he can't do it unless you show him you forgive him."

Dean scoffed and shook his head, taking a drink of his whiskey, but Bobby kept his eyes fixed on him. "It's better this way, Dean."

"For who?" Dean snapped. "For who, exactly? Because where I'm standing all I see is a dead father and a brother who killed him. Our family is even more screwed up than before, and you want me to just look past that—look past what Sam did—and just…keep going? Keep going _where_?" Dean broke off and ran his fingers through his hair, then tossed back the remaining whiskey. He shoved his chair back and stalked out of the room.

Bobby sighed, considering it at least a small victory that Dean had sat and listened to what he had to say. Maybe he'd think about it, think about talking to Sam. That was all he could hope for.

* * *

As it turned out, Sam came up to Dean before Dean could come up to Sam.

Dean was outside, tinkering with the Impala, when Sam approached him, holding a phone in one hand. Dean looked up and Sam felt his chest tighten when he saw Dean's face harden but he swallowed the hurt and stepped closer to the hood.

"Hey," he said. "How's the car?"

Dean wiped his hands off on a cloth resting on the top of the car and stared at Sam, not answer. Sam swallowed hard.

"So, uh…" he said. He held up the phone. "It's Dad's. It took me a while, but I managed to hack into his voicemail. Listen to this." He pressed play on the keyboard.

_John, it's Ellen. Again. Look, don't be stubborn, you know I can help you. Call me. _

Sam pocketed the phone. "That message is four months old."

Dean frowned. "Dad saved that chick's message for four months?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, relieved that his brother was speaking to him.

"Well, who's Ellen?" Dean asked. "Any mention of her in Dad's journal?"

"No, but I ran a trace on her number and I got an address."

A beat of silence passed, during which they avoided each other's eyes, tension and uncertainty rippling out between them. "Okay," Dean said. "So…you want to go find this woman or what?"

"Yeah, I thought…I mean, maybe we should tell her what happened to Dad. If, you know…she knew him."

Dean stared at him for another beat of silence and then nodded. "Okay. Let's go."

Sam exhaled, relieved, and was about to say something else, but his brother had already turned back to the Impala, closing the hood, and was digging his keys out of his pocket. Without a word he opened the driver's door and slid in, looking expectantly at Sam to do the same.

They pulled up later in front of a small, run-down building labeled as _The Roadhouse_. Inside was a bar and several tables, but it was completely empty. Sam went around the bar and disappeared through the door against the wall. Dean made to follow him but felt something press against his back and stopped cold, realizing what it was.

"Oh god, please let that be a rifle," he muttered.

The gun cocked threateningly. "No, I'm just real happy to see you," a distinctly female voice said from behind Dean, surprising him. He made to turn around to get a better look at her face and she poked him again with the rifle. "Don't move."

"Not moving," Dean assured her. "Copy that. You know, you should know something, miss. When you put a rifle on someone, you don't want to put it right against their back. Because it makes it real easy to do…" He turned fluidly, catching the gun as he went and snatching it from the girl's hands. He cocked it and raised his eyebrows. "That."

He'd only gotten a glimpse of the slender blonde when the heel of her hand came up, colliding with his nose. The gun was yanked back and Dean doubled over, giving a choked cry as his hand flew to his face. He considered calling for Sam but stopped himself just in time. "I can't see," he muttered in shock. "I can't even _see_."

"Dean?"

Dean heard the door behind him open and turned to look; Sam stepped through with his hands over his head.

"Sam? What—" Dean wanted to groan as he saw a woman follow Sam out with a handgun pointed at his brother's head. They were really screwed now.

The woman frowned, her eyes flicking between the two of them. She was in her forties, with sleek, shoulder-length brown hair. "Sam? Dean?" She said. "Winchester?"

"Yeah," Sam and Dean said together, and looked at each other briefly, then back at the woman holding the gun.

"Son of a bitch," she said, looking at the brothers in amazement.

"Mom, you know these guys?" the blonde said, her own weapon still trained on Dean.

"Yeah, I think these are John Winchester's boys," the other woman said. She looked at the two of them for another moment silent, and then abruptly she lowered her gun, laughing. "Hey, I'm Ellen. This is my daughter, Jo."

Jo, looking mildly confused, lowered the rifle. "Hey," she said uncertainly.

Sam had dropped his hands, but Dean kept his eyes on Jo. "You're not gonna hit me again, are you?"

* * *

Dean sat at the bar with an ice pack pressed to his nose, Sam sitting nearby and Jo and Ellen standing on either side of them.

"You called our dad," said Dean. "Said you could help. Help with what?"

"Well, the demon, of course," Ellen said. "I heard he was closing in on it."

"The demon is dead," Dean said, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended. "We killed it ourselves."

Ellen's eyes widened. "It's…in that case, why are you two here? John wouldn't have sent you if—" She stopped, watching the way the brothers lowered their eyes, and realization slowly stole over her. "He didn't send you."

Neither one of them answered. Ellen swallowed.

"He's all right, isn't he?"

A pained look crossed Sam's face and dread worked its way into the pit of Ellen's stomach. She knew how these boys had grown up, taking care of each other, looking out for each other—she'd figured them to be pretty close, but looking at them now, there was something obviously wrong. The way they were avoiding each other's eyes, the look of complete guilt in Sam's expression—she could almost feel the tension rolling off them in waves.

And she had an inkling where it might be coming from.

"He's dead," Dean said, confirming her suspicions and cementing the feeling of dread. "He died with the demon inside him."

Ellen was speechless for a moment. She watched as Sam closed his eyes and ducked his head, the brief look Dean cast his brother before he looked down again. These poor boys looked like they'd been through hell. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"It's okay," Dean said with a small shake of his head, and it was clearly a lie, but Ellen knew that pushing these two to tell her what really happened would only make things worse.

Later, however, when Jo and Dean were sitting over by the window, taking quietly, she saw herself facing Sam across the bar, looking at his broody eyes behind a curtain of hair, and made a weak gesture to help.

"You sure you're doin' okay, Sam?" she asked. "I know it must be hard."

"Yeah, well. I'm just…" he glanced over at his brother, then again down at the table. He half-smiled and his eyes fell on something behind Ellen, against the back wall.

"Hey Ellen," he said, clearly fighting to keep is voice light. "What's that?"

Ellen glanced back at the wall. "It's a police scanner. I just run the saloon here, but we keep tabs on things."

Sam frowned. "No, the—" He broke off and frowned. "You keep an eye on things? And you knew our dad, did you keep tabs on him, too? Is that how you knew about the demon?"

Ellen almost smiled. "Hunters have been known to pass through now and again. Including your dad a long time ago. John was like family once."

"He never mentioned you before."

Ellen shrugged. She didn't reply.

Sam cleared his throat. "Well, um…anyway, I was talking about the, um…" he pointed. "That folder."

Ellen glanced at it. "Uh, I was gonna give this to a friend of mine. But…take a look, if you want."

She took the folder off the wall and placed it on the table in front of Sam. It had newspaper clippings attached to it and written in red marker on the front: COUPLE MURDERED. CHILD LEFT ALIVE. MEDFORD, WISC.

Sam leafed through the folder. "This a hunt?"

"Looks like it," Ellen said. "A few murders, not far from here. You and Dean could take a look if you want."

Sam's face lit up for a moment, a look of eagerness to get back out on a hunt, but the look died a moment later. He glanced, once again, over at his brother, and swallowed. "I, um…I dunno. I'll have to talk to Dean."

Ellen hesitated, not wanting to intrude but watching that brooding look slowly overshadow Sam's face again. She frowned. "Sam, I understand your father's death must be hard to cope with, but…is something wrong with you and Dean? You're acting awfully edgy."

"It's fine," Sam said. "We're fine. It's nothing."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Sam turned slightly, not quite looking at his brother, and called. "Dean."

Dean looked up automatically. "What?"

"Come check this out, it's something Ellen caught wind of. I think it's a hunt."

Dean frowned. "Yeah. So?"

"So…why don't we go check it out?"

Dean scratched the back of his neck, sighing softly. "I, uh…I dunno, Sam."

"Come on, you boys need to get back out there," Ellen said. "It won't take long, just go check it out. It will make a good distraction."

She watched as Sam and Dean exchanged another tension-filled glance, but Dean relented. He stood up. "Yeah, yeah, all right. Fine. Let's just go."

* * *

"You gotta be kidding me," Dean said as he and Sam rode through darkened, rain-swept streets. Sam had just given him the lowdown on the case, and—"Killer clown?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "He left the daughter unharmed, and killed the parents. Ripped them to pieces, actually."

"And the family was at some kind of carnival that night?" Dean clarified.

"Right, right, the…_Cooper Carnival_."

"So how do you know we're not dealing with some psycho carni in a clown suit?"

"Well the cops have no viable leads, and all the employees were tearing down shop. Alibis, all around."

Sam chanced a glance in Dean's direction. He sat with his eyes fixed on the road, expression vaguely thoughtful but mostly blank. He continued, fighting to keep the mood light—as he'd been working to do all evening. "Plus the girl—said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course…"

"Well, I know what you're thinking, Sam," Dean said, surprising Sam by addressing him directly, and surprising him even more when Dean looked over at his brother with a slight smirk. "Why did it have to be _clowns_?"

"Give me a break," Sam said, and he was relieved when Dean chuckled.

"You didn't think I remembered, did you?" he said. His smirk returned. "I mean, come on, you still bust out crying whenever you see Ronald Mcdonald on the television."

"At least I'm not afraid of flying," Sam said.

"Planes crash!"

"And apparently, clowns kill!"

Dean's smirk had faded, but the easy banter had taken the edge off, at least temporarily.

"So these types of murders, they ever happened before?"

"Uh…" Sam looked down at the papers. "According to the file, 1981…the _Bunker Brothers_ _Circus_, it happened three different times, three different locales."

"It's weird though, I mean, if it is a spirit, it's usually bound to a specific locale. You know, a house, or a town."

"So how's this one moving from city to city, carnival to carnival?" Sam agreed.

"Cursed object maybe," said Dean. "Spirit attaches itself to something, and the carnival carries it around with it."

"Great," Sam said sarcastically. "Paranormal scavenger hunt."

"This case was your idea," Dean reminded him. There was a beat of silence. "By the way, why is that? You were awfully quick to jump on this job."

Sam glanced at Dean. "So?"

"It's just not like you, that's all," Dean said, keeping his gaze fixed on the road. _Although now, I'm not sure how well I really know you anymore at all,_ he thought to himself.

Sam swallowed. "Yeah, well, you were pretty reluctant to take it up, that's not really like _you_ either."

"Yeah, well, maybe I wasn't sure I was ready to take a case with you just yet. Maybe I'm still coming to terms with…this…whatever it is."

Sam knew what Dean was really trying to say—Dean didn't trust him enough right now to work a case with him, not after what Sam had done. And he figured he didn't deserve anything different, but it hurt to hear Dean say it nevertheless.

He would make it up to his brother. He'd show him that he was still the same person, that he could still be trusted.

* * *

**AN**: So, maybe this has already been done before. But in my time browsing the Supernatural fandom on here and on Tumblr, thinking about how every single thing that happened in the Winchesters' lives led up to the apocalypse, nobody mentioned this little detail that could've changed everything. If anyone has suggestions I'm all ears, but I'll probably continue this later on once I get a better idea of where I'm going with this. So please, review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

"You boys picked a hell of a time to join up," Mr. Cooper said as Sam and Dean sat in the chairs before his desk. As Dean looked at the man over the table, he felt vaguely uncertain about this plan he and Sam had come up with—he'd never pictured himself working at a carnival for any length of time, even for a hunt, and he wasn't really too thrilled about it. "We've got all kinds of local trouble," Cooper continued with a frown, scratching the back of his neck.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

"Oh, a couple of folks got themselves murdered," Mr. Cooper said tiredly, as though it was the fault of the victims. "Cops always seem to start here first. So…you two ever worked the circuit before?"

"Yes, sir," Sam lied. "Through Texas and Arkansas."

"Yeah," Dean agreed.

"Doing what?" Cooper asked. "Ride jockies? Butcher? ANS men?"

"Yeah, it's uh...little bit of everything, I guess," Sam said.

Cooper regarded them briefly, arching one eyebrow. "You two have never worked a show in your lives before, have you?"

"Nope," Dean admitted with a wry smile. "But we really need the work. Oh, and, uh, Sam here's got a thing for the bearded lady."

Sam turned the bitchface on his brother but was studiously ignored.

Cooper stared at the both of them again for a moment, silent, and then turned and pointed to a picture hanging nearby on the wall. "See that picture?" he said. "That's my daddy."

"You look just like him," Sam said.

"He was in the business," Cooper said, leaning back in his chair. "Ran a freakshow. Till they outlawed them, most places. Apparently displaying the deformed isn't _dignified_. So most of the performers went from honest work to rotting in hospitals and asylums. That's progress, I guess. You see, this place, it's a refuge for outcasts. Always has been. For folks that don't fit in nowhere else. But you two? You should go to school. Find a couple of girls. Have two point five kids. Live regular."

Dean was about to break into this little monologue when his brother leaned forward, gaze solemn and locked on Cooper.

"Sir, we don't want to go to school," he said emphatically. "And we don't want regular. We want _this_."

Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye, surprised. Though Sam was a master at manipulating people with the power of his soulful eyes and earnest words, he'd sounded particularly vehement saying this. Dean couldn't help wondering if he really meant it.

In any case, Cooper bought it, so they found themselves—temporarily, at least—part of the glamorous institution that was the carnival circuit.

"Huh," Dean said as they left Cooper's office, returning to the bustling carnival.

"What?" Sam asked.

"That whole, uh, I don't want to go back to school thing. Were you just saying that to Cooper or were you, you know, _saying_ it?" He raised his eyebrows. "Sam?"

Sam didn't meet his brother's eyes. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Dean frowned. "I thought that once the demon was dead and the fat lady sings that you were gonna take off, head back to Wussy State." And he wasn't sure anymore how he felt about that. Part of him wanted to put distance between himself and Sam, but at the same time…

"I'm having second thoughts," Sam said, surprising Dean.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I think…Dad would have wanted me to stick to the job."

"Since when do you give a damn what Dad wanted?" Dean said, suddenly angry. "You spent half your life doing exactly what he didn't want, Sam." _And then you spent the last moment of _his_ life doing exactly what he told you. So now you're trying to make up for that? _

He said none of this aloud, however.

"Since he died, okay?" Sam retorted. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Dean shrugged, though he couldn't quite quell the bubble of anger at Sam's words. "Nah. I don't have a problem at all."

* * *

Sam was glad this job allowed some time to separate himself from Dean, because his brother seemed angry again and he didn't want to get into an argument until this damned case was over with.

So he scanned for EMF alone, flinching every time he saw one of those stupid colorful dressed-up grinning polka-dotted…

Sam shook himself. This phobia was really getting out of hand.

"What took you so long?" Sam asked as Dean approached him—they'd agreed to meet almost ten minutes ago.

"Long story," Dean said. He looked like he was about to continue, but a little girl nearby caught their attention by saying with excitement: "Mommy, look at the clown!"

Sam and Dean looked over at where the girl was pointing, but there was nothing there. The girl was dragged off by her mom and the brothers shared another look, clearly thinking the same thing.

"Stakeout?" Sam said.

Dean nodded. "Yup."

Night found them sitting in their Impala outside the home of the girl who'd seen the clown, engine off, air cool and crisp. Dean had just finished describing his conversation with the blind man, and Sam stared at his brother in exasperation. "Dean, I cannot believe you told Papazian about the homicidal phantom clown." Jesus, he hoped he'd never have to use the phrase _homicidal phantom clown_ ever again.

"I told him an _urban legend_ about a homicidal phantom clown," Dean defended himself. "I never said it was real." He pulled out a gun, cocking it, and Sam reached over to lower his brother's hands.

"Keep that down!" he hissed.

Dean looked at his brother in exasperation, fighting him for a moment before pulling the gun away and reluctantly lowering it. "Oh, and get this," Dean said. "I mentioned the Bunker Brother's Circus in '81 and their, uh, evil clown apocalypse? Guess what."

"What?"

"Before Mr. Cooper owned Cooper Carnival, he worked for Bunker Brothers. He was their lot manager."

"So you think whatever the spirit's attached to, Cooper just brought it with him?

"Something like that." Dean rolled his eyes and looked out the window of the car. "I can't believe we keep talking about clowns."

A little later Sam roused Dean at the sight of the light flicking on in the living room and the little girl inside crossing to the door. The phantom clown was standing outside the family's house. The door opened and a little girl appeared, saying something they couldn't hear, and the creature, whatever the hell it was, took the little girl's hand and stepped inside the house.

Sam and Dean used the same entrance to get into the house, bearing weapons, and went around the other way to intercept the clown and the girl.

"You grab the girl," Dean hissed. "I'll take out the clown."

"Dean, what if the rock salt doesn't work?"

"Then we…think of something else. You got a better idea?"

Sam sighed. "No. Let's just get this over with before the clown gets at her parents." With that, Sam leapt around the corner, grabbing the girl out of the phantom's grip. She girl began to scream as Sam pulled her out of harm's way, but he ignored her, watching as Dean raised the shotgun, firing at the monster.

The rock salt hit the clown in the chest, and it fell backwards onto the floor, lying still for a moment as Dean cocked the shotgun. Only seconds later, however, it was back on its feet, leaping towards the window before Dean could shoot again.

The glass shattered and the clown vanished, conveniently, just as the parents came rushing downstairs.

"What's going on?" the dad demanded.

"Oh my god, what are you doing to my daughter?" the mother shrieked.

Sam jerked to his feet and Dean hid his gun quickly, but they couldn't get out of there fast enough. As they from the room and towards the door, Sam heard the girl cry from behind them, "They shot my clown!"

* * *

"Pretty sure they saw the plates," Dean said as he gunned the engine down the road. "We're gonna have to change them, I'm not taking any chances." Sam didn't answer, and they were both silent for a moment. "Well, one thing's for sure at least," he said finally.

"What's that?" Sam asked quietly.

"We're not dealing with a spirit. I mean, that rock salt hit something solid."

"Yeah, a person? Or maybe a creature that can make itself invisible."

"Yeah, and dresses up as a clown for kicks. You see anything in Dad's journal?"

"Nope." Sam pulled out his phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"Maybe Ellen or that guy Ash'll know something," Sam said. A smile flickered across his face. "Hey," he said tentatively. "You think, uh, you think Dad and Ellen ever had a thing?"

"No way," Dean said, shaking his head.

"Then why didn't he tell us about her?"

"I don't know, maybe they had some sort of falling out."

"Yeah. You ever notice Dad had a falling out with just about everybody?" Dean nodded but stayed silent and he saw Sam cast him a frown. "Well, don't get all maudlin on me, man."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, trying to hide his exasperation, knowing where Sam was going with this.

"I mean this strong silent thing of yours, it's crap. I'm over it."

"Oh, god," Dean said, rolling his eyes. _Please, let's not do this right now…_

"This isn't just anyone we're talking about, this is Dad," Sam continued relentlessly. "I know how you felt about the man."

"You know what, back off, all right?" Dean said, struggling to keep his eyes fixed on the road. "Just because I'm not caring and sharing like you want me to."

"No, no, no, that's not what this is about, Dean. I don't care how you deal with this. But you have to deal with it, man. Listen, I'm your brother, all right? I just want to make sure you're okay."

"Do you? Do you really? Is that what this is about? Or is this about me making _you_ feel better?"

"Dean, I didn't—"

"Yeah, whatever, Sam, but the fact remains—you're the reason dad is dead. And even if I tell you I'm okay it's not gonna change that. So just shut up and stew in your guilt in silence, all right? Because bothering me about whether I'm okay isn't going to make me forgive you."

He hadn't meant to say all those things, but they'd just kind of stumbled out of his mouth. He hadn't wanted to get into it with Sam, not now, not in the middle of a job…not ever. He wished he could shove these issues down, hide them, bury them, not talk about them again.

After all, now he just felt bad about what he'd said to his brother. Though the ever-prominent ache he'd been feeling since his father's death was growing more painful by the day, he knew Sam was hurting too. He didn't want Sam to be in pain, but at the same time…he couldn't just forget what he'd done.

_You're the reason dad is dead._

Maybe he shouldn't have said that.

What's done is done, though, he figured, and besides, it was true. Dean cast a brief glance at his brother as he drove and what he saw only made him feel worse—Sam had lapsed into silence, and though he was gazing out the passenger side window, clearly trying to hide his face, Dean could see the pain knotting Sam's brow and the tears swimming in Sam's overly soulful eyes.

He felt a tug in his gut, a deeply instilled instinct to protect his little brother and make his pain go away, but he fought it back.

As they sat in silence, driving down the long length of road, he found it harder than he thought.

* * *

"Thanks," Sam said to Ellen over the phone. He shut off his cell and pocketed it, then looked at Dean. "Rakshasa."

"What's that?" Dean said. It had been nearly an hour and they were still on the road, but the tension had faded from the car, enough that talking wasn't physically taxing.

"Ellen's best guess," Sam said in answer to Dean's question. "It's a race of ancient Hindu creatures, they appear in human form, they feed on human flesh, they can make themselves invisible, and they cannot enter a home without first being invited."

"So they dress up like clowns, and the children invite them in."

"Yeah."

Sam told him what else he knew—rakashakas live in squalor, have to feed ever twenty or thirty years, and you kill the thing with a brass dagger. They also concluded that Cooper was their best candidate for being the monster they wanted, because he'd worked both shows.

So at the carnival that night, while Sam got into Cooper's trailer for proof of the man's guilt, Dean asked the blind man he'd spoken to earlier for a brass knife, since he was a knife thrower—he was bound to have one, right?

"Well, I've got lots of knives," the man said as he led Dean to his trailer. "I don't know if I've got a brass one, though." He tapped a trunk with his cane. "Check the trunk."

Dean looked inside, and the first thing he found in the jumble of assorted items was…a red clown wig.

_Damn it_.

"You?" Dean said, turning to look at the man.

The blind man dropped his cane and pulled off his dark glasses. For a moment his eyes were normal, but then they clouded over and his face seemed to melt into a terrifying, evil grin that sent chills down Dean's spine. The creature waved at Dean, then vanished.

Dean backed against the door and then seized the handle, but of course it was locked. He jumped as a knife whistled through the air and buried itself in the door near his head. Another landed with a thunk a little higher and Dean whirled around, searching for the invisible threat.

"All right!" he shouted.

He gave the door a sturdy kick; to his relief it gave and slammed open and Dean stumbled outside, running back out into the carnival, almost colliding with Sam.

"Hey!" Sam said. "Hey, so, Cooper things I'm a peeping tom, but it's not him."

"Yeah, so I gathered. It's the blind guy, he's here somewhere."

"Well, did you get the—"

"The brass blade? No, it's been one of those days."

Sam looked around briefly and then nodded. "I got an idea. Come on."

They crossed the carnival and entered the funhouse. _Oh, great,_ Dean thought. He hated funhouses. Especially this one, which seemed really crappy, full of things to jump out at you that were supposed to scare you. If only people knew what things were _really_ hiding in the dark, this shit would be nothing in comparison.

They began to creep through it, slowly, cautiously, and then—_slam._

A door closed in front of Dean, cutting Sam off from him. The _protect Sam_ panic rose inside him again and he grasped at the door, shaking it violently to get it open. He heard Sam doing the same on the other side, but the door stayed stubbornly shut.

"Sam!" Dean called through the door.

"Dean!" Sam sounded panicked as well and Dean repressed the urge to kick down the door. "Find the maze, okay?"

Dean went around the funhouse the other way and found Sam at the other end standing next to a steaming pipe organ. "Hey."

"Hey," Sam said. "Where is it?"

"I don't know, I mean, shouldn't we see its clothes walking around?"

The second he'd said this a knife flew past his head and he narrowly dodged it, heart racing as the blade pierced his jacket, pinning him to the wall. Another followed suit, sticking the wrist of his jacket against the wall as well. As Sam wrenched free the pipe from its organ he gripped the knives and pulled, but they wouldn't come loose.

He gave an involuntary jolt as another knife sliced through the air, nearly hitting Sam's head.

"Dean, where is it?"

"I don't know!"

Dean caught sight of a lever above his head and his mind raced as he traced its origin. Yeah, that might help. He reached up and gave it a tug—more steam billowed out from the pipe organ and Dean caught sight of the outline of a figure in the steam.

"Sam, behind you! behind you!"

Without looking, Sam thrust the pipe out behind him. He turns, letting it go and leaving it buried in the still-invisible rakshasa, blood pouring from the wound.

Dean freed himself, pushed the lever back into place, and he and Sam approached the creature. There was no body, however, only a pile of clothes and a bloody pipe in its place. Dean stared in disdain at the dead monster.

"I hate funhouses," he muttered.

* * *

Sam looked over as Jo sat on Dean's other side, smiling slightly. Jo met Sam's eyes and gave him a pointed look, and Sam cleared his throat and rose without a word to leave them alone. He knew that Dean didn't really want to be near him right now anyway, so he figured it was better to leave him alone for a while.

He went over to Ellen at the other end of the room, as far from Dean and Jo as possible so he wouldn't be able to hear what they were talking about.

"How you doing, Sam?" Ellen asked as she wiped down tables with the efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times before.

"I'm okay," he said. He cast her a vague smile, but he must have let something slip in his expression because she faced him squarely and frowned, silently calling bullshit.

"Really," she said. "Looks like you've got a lot on your mind."

Sam shook his head and glanced at Dean. "It's nothing. Really. I shouldn't."

"Sam. Come on, now. You've gotta get some of this off your chest. Your dad just died. I've lost family too, I understand."

"No, it's…it's more complicated than that." Sam exhaled shakily. "I'm sorry. I just…can't."

"Sam, honey." Ellen's voice took on a maternal tone that made Sam's chest ache. "Tell me what's going on."

Sam tried to laugh, but it sounded a bit more like a sob. He swallowed hard. "I'm just pretty sure Dean hates me now, that's all."

"How could your brother hate you?"

"Oh, it's not that hard to believe." Sam shook his head, unable to meet her eyes when he confessed this. "Listen, I...you have to understand...I didn't have another choice, I didn't-"

"Sam. What happened?"

Sam let his eyes slip closed. "I killed him, Ellen." His voice was almost a whisper. "I killed John. It's my fault he's dead."

Ellen was silent for a long, long moment. Sam glanced at her and saw her jaw working. "What do you mean?" she asked finally, her voice crisp and soft.

"He was possessed by the demon," Sam explained, trying to speak around the tightness in his throat. "He gained control. Told me to kill him before the demon managed to escape. He told me to end it, to shoot him with the colt. So I took the shot." He closed his eyes. "I killed my own father for the sake of revenge."

Once again Ellen was silent for a long time. Sam spared a glance at her and saw her eyes swimming with tears, her pained expression causing his stomach to twist once again. "Oh, Sam," she said softly.

"I know," he said. "I know."

"No, Sam, listen to me, all right?" He raised his eyes cautiously to hers. "That demon killed your girlfriend," Ellen said, and her voice was stern. "It killed your mother. All John Winchester wanted all his life was to kill that demon. You fulfilled his life goal, Sam. And maybe you can let go of some of that pain, now."

"I still shouldn't have done it," Sam muttered. "You know it was wrong."

"It's not really my place to say that."

Sam looked at Ellen and met her gentle eyes, and was relieved to see no judgment or hatred there—only understanding, sorrow, empathy. It made him hopeful that one day he'd see those things in Dean's eyes as well.

"Thanks, Ellen," he whispered.

He and Dean left a while later, after turning down Ellen's offer of staying for another night at the roadhouse. Instead they went back to Bobby's, and spent some time there before searching for another hunt.

As it happened, that hunt never came.

One afternoon Sam went to find his brother and saw him outside Bobby's house in the lot, once again working on the Impala. He'd been complaining about an unnatural rattling in the engine for a while, so evidently he was finally looking into it.

"Dean?"

Dean, not hearing Sam's approach, jumped at his brother's voice, slamming his head against the underside of the car's hood.

"Sorry," Sam said, wincing in sympathy as his brother muttered several choice curses. "Didn't mean to…"

"Never mind," Dean groaned, rubbing the back of his head. "What do you want?"

Sam swallowed. "I just, um…I wanted to say you were right."

Dean looked at Sam in silence.

"It's too late for me to make it up to Dad," Sam said. "I spent a lot of time being so angry with him, but I was just out for the same revenge he was. And I can't stand thinking he died thinking I hated him. But what I can't take even more…" He closed his eyes briefly. "I just hope it isn't too late to make it up to you. Because I won't be able to survive this pain if…if you hate me."

Dean sighed quietly. He tossed his wrench to the ground and Sam looked up, surprised. Dean's eyes were hard and unforgiving and he began to lose hope that his confession had helped anything.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Dean said. He shook his head. "Sam, you _killed_ our father. That's not something I can just forget about."

"I know that! And I'm trying to _apologize_, man."

"You think that's gonna do it?" Dean glared at his brother. "Look, Sam, maybe I shouldn't have said some of the things I said in the car—I may have been being harsh. But the thing is, I can't trust you anymore. I can't trust you to watch my back on a hunt, I can't trust you to listen to me or do what's right."

"What _I_ think is right or what _you_ think is right?"

"Sam, family always comes first—always! I thought we agreed on that. I thought you gave a shit about what happened to me and Dad. I thought there were some things you would put before that _demon_—like our _lives_. Obviously I was wrong. So _excuse me_ if I'm having trouble trusting you now!"

"Dean, I made a split second decision. I didn't think. But it's over, and the demon is dead, and Dad probably would have killed himself getting revenge on it anyway."

"Oh, it's _over_? Is that it? Forgive, forget, and move on with our lives? I'm not sure I can do that, Sam." Dean ran his fingers through his hair. "If I'd been on the other end of that trigger, would you still have been able to do it? If I'd been possessed, would you still have taken the shot?"

"Dad was _begging_ me, man! He _wanted_ me to kill him. All he wanted was for this demon to be dead. You—you're different. You know that."

Dean shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly, his eyes still cold as they turned back to Sam.

"You know, I tried so hard to protect you from all this…this…_crap_ for so many years," Dean said. "I always wanted more for you, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe you're actually more cut out for this job than I thought you were. Maybe you're the ruthless, shoot-first-ask-questions-later hunter Dad always wanted to make you into."

"And is that so bad?"

"I don't know, Sam, is it? Is it worth it if you're willing to kill your _family_?"

"You know maybe I never wanted this life for myself either, Dean!" Sam said angrily. "In case you forgot, _I_ wanted to stay at Stanford, marry Jessica, become a lawyer, but you were the one who tried to get me _out_ of that life. How about you make up your mind about what you want for me—or better yet, stop trying to tell me what I should do with my life. Let me make my own choices!"

Dean gripped Sam by the front of his jacket and shoved his face up to his brother's, scowling. "You can't blame me for taking you out of your life with Jess—it was that demon. The demon is gone now, just like you said. So you know what? You go right ahead and make your own damn choices, Sam. I don't give a shit anymore."

"So do you want me to leave?" Sam snapped, shoving his brother back. "Do you want me to go back to Stanford, leave you alone, and stay gone?"

"Yeah, maybe I do!"

They stared at each other for several long moments, breathing hard. Part of Sam wanted to start throwing punches at his brother, but he knew it would make no difference. Dean didn't want him around. Maybe he never had. Maybe it was really time for him to go. For good.

He didn't belong in this life, anyway.

"All right," Sam said. "Fine. I guess it's high time I get out of your hair, then, isn't it?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I guess so," he said flatly.

Sam nodded, paused, and then turned away from his brother, heading towards Bobby's house, intending to pack a bag and tell Bobby goodbye.

* * *

"You're leaving?"

Sam hiked his duffel higher up on his shoulder, facing Bobby in the middle of the living room. His bag contained clothes, his phone, his laptop, a couple guns and a few salt rounds.

"Yeah," he said. "I, uh…I gave my friend Simon a call. He was in my class at Stanford. He offered me an internship at his parents' law firm in California. I thought I'd at least go down there and check it out."

Bobby blinked. "Well, that's…very sudden." He frowned. "What made you change your mind, kid?"

Sam sighed quietly. "I just, uh…" He shook his head. "Dean and I, we just need some space, you know? And I always said I'd get out of the hunting life after the demon was dead, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…Sam…" Bobby frowned. "Is this really…what you want?"

"I can't just stay here," Sam said, dodging the question. "I'm sorry, Bobby."

"Kid…" Bobby scratched at his neck. "Listen, Dean doesn't hate you, all right? He'll see past this hurt sooner or later. You just gotta give him time."

"That's what I'm doing," Sam said. "If he wants to, he'll find me. But I think we're better off alone…at least for now."

Bobby regarded Sam with bleak eyes. "All right, well…if that's what you think is best." He reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "You keep in touch, Sam, you hear?"

"Yeah. Of course." Sam smiled at his friend, hoping to convey his thanks through that expression, and then turned to leave before his eyes could fill.

Bobby only had a couple working cars at the moment, so he chose the least-threatening one—an old red two-seater with an engine that at least sounded relatively healthy. He tossed his bag in the trunk, then slammed it shut, keeping his hand resting on the metal for a moment, and glanced over at the Impala.

He felt a wrenching feeling in his chest, memories of sitting in that front seat with Dean for hours and hours forcing their way through his mind. He looked away, letting the feeling of loss pass, and made his way to the driver's seat of his car.

He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Dean stood at the other side of the car, by the passenger door, staring at him. His face was expressionless but Sam could see emotions flickering underneath his eyes. Sam wanted to say something—goodbye, maybe, or I'm sorry again—but he stopped himself just in time. Instead he just nodded, opened the door and swung inside, starting up the engine.

He'd lied through his teeth to Bobby. Charlie _had_ been a friend from Stanford, and his parents _did_ own a law firm, and he probably _would_ be offered an internship there if he asked, but Sam had never called him up. He didn't want to go back to law. He didn't want to return to Stanford, either.

He didn't know _what_ he wanted.

But he was going to find out.

At least, that's what he told himself as he drove away from Bobby's house, away from his brother, away from what little family he had left.

* * *

**AN: **Next update might not be for a while, but it might be sooner if you review or message me with your brilliant thoughts :) The road isn't going to get much easier for Sam and Dean from here on out, and I plan to construct some separate stories for the two of them for a little while, but they won't be separated forever.


	3. Chapter 3

**Four months later**

Dean's feet slammed along rough pavement, his panting breaths fogging the air out ahead of him as he pumped his legs hard, knowing he wouldn't be fast enough, knowing he wouldn't survive this battle. He ran anyway, desperate, heart pumping out what he knew would be its last beats.

He stumbled as pain flared white-hot at his side and pressed a hand against the bleeding gashes that he was sporting there. He ignored the pulsing agony that thrummed at the injury and pushed on, searching for a place to hide, somewhere, anywhere that would be safe—

An invisible force slammed into his bad side and he yelped as it threw him onto the ground. Pain ripped along his torso and he clenched his jaw as he rolled, moving onto his back, grasping at his injuries. Just as he was trying to struggle to his feet the woman caught him, straddling him and pinning his arms to the ground. He fought her grip, but she was too strong, and the pain was too much.

"Finally caught you, Winchester," she sneered. "Can't run anymore, can you?"

"I'll get you for this, you bitch," Dean growled, glaring at her.

"Oh, you won't be alive long enough," she purred, running her nails along his neck, digging them into his pulse point. Dean jerked, and she smirked. "Bet you wish you weren't alone anymore, huh Dean? If only your trusted baby brother were beside you, maybe you wouldn't be a minute away form death."

"Go to hell."

"Already been." She smiled and dragged her fingers down his collarbone. Toward his heart. "Don't plan on returning anytime soon. You, on the other hand…" Her fingers drew blood and Dean winced. "You're so alone, aren't you, Winchester? Everyone betrays you, everyone leaves you. Soon your whole family will be gone. John, you, and then little Sammy…"

"You…leave…Sam…alone," Dean panted.

"Oh, he won't die right away," she said. "We have plans for him first. Don't you worry. Now…" Her fingers were right above his heart now. "Any last words?"

But she didn't give him any. Her nails dug into his skin and blood pooled underneath her hand. Dean screamed, back arching, but he couldn't fight it. Her hand was digging into his chest, destroying his heart.

"SAM!" Dean screamed.

Sam shot bolt upright in bed.

He panted hard, eyes wide as he tangled with the remnants of the dream, cold sweat creating a sheen over his skin. He ran his fingers through his hair, looking around the dark, empty apartment as he tried to shake the familiar feeling of terror the dream had inspired within him.

That had been the third time that month he'd had that dream, and it never failed to strike fear in him—it was so vivid, so realistic, and so like the visions he'd had prior to Azazel's death. He couldn't shake the feeling that…that…

He snatched his phone from his bedside table and checked for messages, even though he already knew there wouldn't be any. Dean hadn't contacted him in months, and he hadn't tried to contact Dean either. He'd wanted to, but...he hadn't.

His finger hovered over speed-dial one, just as it did every time he had this nightmare, and the urge to call his brother was more tempting than it had been in weeks. He could just…give him a quick ring, just to make sure he was all right, just to hear his voice, no harm in that, right?

But he fought back the urge, and turned off his phone, laying back in bed with an exhausted sigh. He was getting really sick of his nightmares and knew that if he just _called_ Dean he'd feel better, but he couldn't. He was afraid if he did he'd want to rush right back to his brother.

The way he'd left things with Dean…it would take more than a simple call to fix things. Dean was glad he was gone and besides, Sam needed to prove once and for all that he didn't need Dean always watching his back. He needed to show his brother that he could be independent and could survive on his own.

* * *

Sam pushed open the door to _Malloy's Restaurant and Bar_ and stepped out of the Iowa afternoon and inside to begin work. Working as a bartender had never been his dream job, but it allowed him to keep his apartment, and besides—it wasn't without its perks.

"You look tired, Sam," Cara Ferris said as Sam tied on his apron, stepping behind the counter. Her long brown hair was pulled up into a ponytail, her freckles hidden under a tan that she kept despite the recent chill in the air, and she was as pretty as she always was. Sam smiled at her and shrugged.

"Didn't get much sleep last night," he said.

She raised one eyebrow and smirked. "Had a guest over?"

He laughed. "No, nothing like that." He'd made it abundantly clear that he was single, and Cara had expressed interest, but neither of them had made a move as of yet. Sam supposed that was mostly his fault—the memory of Jessica was still somewhat fresh in his mind and getting close to a girl now felt…off. He'd been somewhat distant to Cara, not making much of an effort to reciprocate her advances.

Even now that the demon was dead, now that he was living his own, normal life, relationships felt uncertain.

But Cara was different than any girl he'd met before. She was especially different from Jess, so much so that sometimes it threw him. She had none of the soft, gentle nature Jess had had—Cara hadn't had the easy, lavished, educated life Jess had boasted either. Cara had grown up in foster families and had more or less learned to take care of herself, and she looked at the world with a fair amount of irony. As she'd once told him, you had to take life with a grain of salt, because otherwise the hard things would get to you.

Maybe the reason she threw Sam so much was because she reminded him of Dean.

Cara gazed over at Sam with her piercing blue eyes. She absentmindedly turned a glass in her hand, wiping it over with a damp rag. "Is it those nightmares again?" she asked.

Sam sighed and leaned against the bar, closing his eyes. Having no one else to talk to about it, Sam had confided in Cara about his recurring dream, and when pushing him to call his brother and quell his fears hadn't worked, she'd urged him to see someone about it.

As it happened, Sam had thought about that-not a therapist, he refused to see a shrink...but there was someone else who might be able to help.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, furrowing his brow and pressing two fingers across the bridge of his nose as his head throbbed briefly. "I was actually considering going to see my friend Missouri, I thought maybe she could help. It's the headaches, too, they're back…may be just be lack of sleep, but…"

"Sam, why don't you just _call_ Dean?"

"Because I told you, it's not that simple."

"Yeah, yeah." Cara rolled her eyes and put the glass away moving instead to swipe at the counter. "Nothing's _simple_, Sam. Especially not family. Maybe you just have to bit the bullet."

"Look," Sam said. "You've never had any siblings, have you?"

She shook her head. "You know that. I was alone in foster care since I turned six. Didn't really have anyone to rely on." She shrugged. "Guess I didn't really mind. I've always worked better alone."

Sam was silent. A smile pulled at his lips. "You know Dean, he, uh…" The smile grew slightly and he exhaled. "He basically pulled me out of a fire when he was only four." He was surprised he was telling her this—aside from explaining the basics of the dream, he hadn't told her much about his brother. He'd had to improvise a lot talking about his past, saying that he'd moved around a lot with his family, his dad taking on odd jobs, and then dropping out of college when his girlfriend died…but beyond that…

Cara was watching him now, silent, still, waiting for him to go on. She was worried that if she made a sound or a move he'd stop talking, and she wanted to know. Sam was so closed off when it came to his family and his past, even more than she was. After all, if he knew about her family...if he knew about the kind of people they'd been...

"He's protected me all his life," Sam continued softly. "He's sacrificed so much…just to keep me…happy. I don't think I could live with myself if something happened to him just because I wasn't there watching his back."

Cara tilted her head to one side. "You never told me any of that."

"I know. I'm sorry. It just doesn't feel…right…talking about my family when they're all gone."

"They're not gone, Sam. Not really."

"Yeah, it's just—" Dean might as well be, he thought miserably. He glanced at Cara, wondering what she would think of him if she knew the truth, that he was responsible for his family being like this, that he'd killed his own father. She'd probably be terrified of him. He was surprised he hadn't scared her off already.

Sam's thoughts strayed to Bobby. Bobby was like family, practically a father to both him and Dean—but was he still in contact with Dean? Could he tell Sam whether his brother was all right?

"Well," Cara said, breaking the stretch of silence that had threatened to overwhelm them both. "Gotta get ready for the dinner rush. Go restock," she ordered, pointing to the back room.

"Geez, so bossy," Sam said with a smirk, but went to the back room to gather supplies.

"Only thing that gets you off your ass and working!" she yelled after him, and he laughed as he went through the door.

Once he was alone in the storage room, Sam pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts until he found Bobby's number. He hesitated a moment before dialing and pressing the phone to his ear.

* * *

It took just over three hours to get from Red Oak, Iowa, to Lawrence, Kansas. Sam hadn't been to Lawrence for a while now, but he was desperate to make sense of these nightmares, to find out if they were really visions, and since he had the weekend off, he was more than willing to make the trip.

He hadn't told Cara where he was going, but she didn't need to know. He'd mentioned Missouri's name but hadn't said that she was a powerful psychic—like Cara would believe that anyway.

Sam pulled up in front of Missouri's house and hesitated, turning off the engine. He hadn't called Missouri to tell her he was coming—either she would know he was coming, or she probably wouldn't be surprised, so he hadn't bothered. He just hoped she would be able to help.

Suddenly he wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to know. What if these _were_ visions, and Dean was going to die—what if it had already happened? What if he'd be too late? What if—?

He exhaled and leaned forward until his forehead rested on the steering wheel. He had to find out what was going on with him. He _had_ to, or this would kill him.

Sam walked up to Missouri's house, not noticing the figure watching him from the shadows, not noticing the black eyes that were fixed on him, not noticing when the figure slinked away back into the trees, mind filled with all it had observed, all the plans storming to life.

* * *

Dean slammed his fist into the shapeshifter's jaw, the well-placed hit throwing the monster to the hard ground. He hissed in pain and flexed his fingers—_damn_, that skin was hard—then drew his silver knife, bearing down on the creature, shoving the metal hard into its chest.

The shapeshifer's eyes widened and it gave a last, choked gasp as blood welled at the wound, and then it was still. Satisfied, Dean got to his feet, breathing heavily and massaging his shoulder where the shifter had slammed him into the brick wall. "Sweet dreams, you son of a bitch," he muttered, then turned, still gripping his shoulder, and began back through the darkened alley's in search of his car. Where the hell had he left it, anyway?

It had been nearly a month, so Dean decided it was time to pay Bobby a visit. Even without Sam's research skills, Dean had found plenty of jobs to be done, and for the past few weeks it had been pretty much hunt after hunt after hunt—one distraction after another, a way to keep busy, a way to give his life a drive forward.

It hadn't been that way at first—when Sam had left Dean had spent a few days feeling pretty lost, and had only reluctantly left to take care of the job Bobby had given him—Bobby had had to practically shove Dean out of his house.

After that he'd taken jobs when they'd come, but he'd only recently begun to actively search out jobs.

Sam hadn't contacted him once.

He tried to feel good about this. Sam asserting his independence—that's what his geeky little brother had always wanted, right? He was certain that Sam was fine, living some happy life with some great job somewhere, maybe back at Stanford and on his way to becoming a lawyer. And anyway, Sam had been the one to leave, so Dean shouldn't be feeling guilty about any of this, right?

Because he wasn't. And he didn't miss Sam. He was a fine hunter on his own, he didn't need a partner. He didn't miss waking up to see a familiar shape on the bed beside him, he didn't miss seeing that person sitting next to him in the Impala, and he _certainly_ didn't miss someone having his back during a hunt with a gun facing away from him, shoulder blade pressed against his.

No. He was perfectly fine on his own.

Nevertheless, it was good to see Bobby when Dean pulled up into his yard, turning off the engine and pushing open the door to his house.

"How ya been, kid?" Bobby asked, handing Dean a beer as the two of them strolled into Bobby's study.

"Been keeping busy," Dean replied with a shrug. "Took care of a shifter a few hours out. Took a while too, it was a clever son of a bitch. Changed its appearance three times before I finally caught it."

"And you're sure you got the _shifter_, right?"

"Bobby, when's the last time I made a mistake?"

Bobby held a hand up in a gesture of surrender. "Just checking." He leaned against his desk. "Rufus stopped by, by the way. Said you were welcome to work with him on a job, if, you know, you wanted to."

Dean knew this wasn't a smack at his hunting abilities and tried not to be offended—but the gesture upset him for some reason. Maybe it made him uncomfortable to think about hunting with anyone other than Sam.

He tried to work around this discomfort in his response to Bobby, but ended up stumbling over his words anyway. "I, uh…that's a nice gesture, but, I don't think, I…I don't know—"

"Dean." The man in question looked up at Bobby, blinking. Bobby's eyes had softened and were way, _way_ too understanding. "Why don't you just _call_ him?"

Dean groaned. "Bobby, come on…" he muttered, turning away. He should have expected this. Dammit, since when was he so freakin' _transparent_?

"I'm serious." Bobby was now regarding him with a stern expression that Dean recognized all too well. "When's the last time you called your brother, Dean? Aren't you worried about him at all? I bet he's worried about you."

"Bobby, we are _not_ talking about this."

"The hell we're not! It's been months, Dean, and you haven't bothered to pick up the phone to call your brother, not _once_! Don't pretend you've just stopped caring about him."

"Well, I—of course not, but—" He couldn't let himself fall into this trap. He needed to end this conversation quickly, and was just trying to figure out a way to do that when the phone rang, effectively doing it for him.

Bobby sighed and picked up the phone. "Hello?" he said gruffly.

He was silent for a moment and then he blinked in surprise. "Well. Speak of the devil."

Dean's eyes widened. _Sam?_

"S'good to hear from you, kid," Bobby said into the phone. "How ya been?" Silence again. He smiled slightly. "Is that so? That's great, Sam." He glanced at Dean, who held his gaze evenly, keeping his face expressionless. Bobby frowned slightly as he listened to whatever Sam was saying. "Dean? Yeah, he's fine. He's right here, actually. You want to talk to him?"

Dean took an involuntary step back, shaking his head. Bobby scowled at him and then listened to the phone. "Oh. Well, all right. Never mind then. Hey—keep in touch, Sam, ya hear? Okay. Later." He hung up the phone and fixed Dean with a scowl again, but Dean had already left the room and was heading upstairs to use the bathroom.

* * *

"I was wondering when I'd see you again, Sam," Missouri said as she led Sam inside and towards her living room. She'd been unsurprised to see Sam at her door, as Sam thought she might be, but she also seemed concerned when she'd seen the fear on the young man's face.

"I've been kinda busy lately," Sam said as he sat on her couch, accepting the cup of tea she handed him. "You knew I was coming, though, didn't you?"

"I suspected it," she said. She raised her eyebrows. "I thought you'd be here with Dean, though. Where's he?"

"I don't know," Sam said honestly. "We split up a few months ago. I've been living a few hours away in Iowa."

"Well," Missouri said with a smile. "Isn't that nice. You happy there, Sam?"

Sam nodded, returning the smile. "Yeah. I'm doing all right."

"Good. So." She leaned forward, her own cup of tea clasped between her palms. "What can I do for you, Sam? I know you didn't come here just to say hello."

Sam swallowed and set down his cup on the table. "You, uh…you know what happened to John, right? You know how he died?"

Missouri nodded silently.

Sam exhaled. "So you know it's because of me."

Missouri sighed softly and nodded again.

Sam twisted his fingers together. "Right, well…after yellow-eyes was killed, I figured my visions had stopped, right? I thought it would all be over. But…I've been having these nightmares."

"Nightmares?" Missouri frowned. "That's how it began, before, isn't it?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. And then they came while I was awake. But it's just been this one dream…over and over…"

"What is this dream about, Sam?"

Sam swallowed hard. "It's about Dean."

A frown pulled at Missouri's brow. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then after a moment said, "Tell me what happens."

Sam explained the nightmare to her in as much detail as he could, and his hands were shaking when he was finished. Talking about it made it feel more real, and he didn't even like thinking about it for too long. "I called Bobby Singer," Sam said. "He said Dean is fine. But I can't help wondering if…this is something that's going to happen. And if so, I need to find a way to stop it." He looked up at Missouri tentatively. "What do you think?"

She gazed at him thoughtfully. "Well," she said. "Sam, this could just be a dream." She held up a hand as he opened his mouth to protest. "You miss your brother. You worry about him. It's only natural. This may just be your outlet to those emotions."

Sam shook his head. "No. I…I know this feeling. I know what it feels like when I experience a vision—the headaches, the foreboding, the vividness of it—this isn't just a dream. It can't be."

Missouri regarded him with her penetrating eyes, leaning forward slightly. "If you're so sure, why did you come to me for help, Sam?"

"Because I need to know…why it's still happening," he said. "The demon is dead. Why am I still having visions?"

Missouri sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I don't know, honey. But you're probably right—from what you've described, these are more than just dreams. You have powers that you're only beginning to understand, Sam."

Sam frowned. "What…what do you mean?"

"Your abilities," Missouri said gently. "They didn't go away just because Azazel died, Sam. You have such powerful skills that I sensed from the moment I met you…that I can still sense."

Sam rolled his lips between his teeth, twisting his fingers together. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked hoarsely.

"You weren't ready to know," she said. "But if you made an effort, Sam…if you tapped into your powers…"

"I…I don't know," Sam said. "It…it scares me, Missouri. What I am…what I could do, if I let it grow….what I might become if it did…"

"Sam." Missouri reached out and took Sam's hand. "You don't need to be afraid of your powers. They could be a gift. I could help you tap into them and use them properly. The headaches might leave and you might be able to control your visions."

Sam breathed out, shaking his head. "I, uh…" He exhaled in a laugh. "I don't know, Missouri."

"Sam, if these _are_ visions, you need to learn to control them, or they'll overwhelm you." She kept her eyes fixed on his and Sam found he could not look away. "And besides, this nightmare you keep having…don't you want to stop it from happening?"

Of course he did. But what would happen if he let these powers in? What if they became too much for him to control?

"You think about it," Missouri said, drawing her hand back. "You have my number. I can help you, Sam. It might let you save your brother."

* * *

Sam drove slowly back to his motel room, head full and spinning. He could feel another headache coming on and wanted nothing more than to sleep, to forget that all this was happening.

He'd wanted so badly to be normal, and he thought that after the demon was dead, even with these powers that had apparently lain dormant, he could at least pretend he was just a regular person.

But even that, he saw, was too much to ask for.

When Sam arrived at the motel, he paused at the door, noticing that it was hanging slightly open. Someone had broken in.

He retrieved the gun from the waistband of his jeans—whenever he was out of town he tended to keep a weapon on him, just in case, as a habit—and slowly, cautiously, pushed the door open enough to slip inside, holding the gun out and pointing it along the walls. He kept the light off, moving inside, seeing no one else in the room.

Just as he was beginning to relax, thinking he was alone, that whoever had broken in was already gone, the door slammed shut behind him and the light flicked on.

Sam whirled around. A girl was standing in front of the closed door, one hand pressed against it. She wore a red jacket and had long blonde hair.

Sam trained his gun on her, scowling. "Who are you?" he demanded.

A smirk pulled up the corners of her lips. "Hello, Sam Winchester. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Who _are_ you?" Sam growled, keeping his gun fixed on her.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, taking a step towards him. "That the way it's gonna be? Fine, we'll skip the pleasantries." She raised her eyebrows. "Don't worry, Sam, I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to talk."

"Yeah. Right. You break into my apartment and you just want to _talk_." Sam gripped his weapon more tightly. "How do you know who I am?"

"Oh, I know a lot more about you than just your name," she said. "I know about your little girlfriend, Jessica, and how she died. I know about your brother, Dean, and his resentment towards you. I know about your powers. I know about your father, and his obsession to kill Azazel. And I know what Azazel did to you when you were a baby."

Sam blinked. "What—who the hell is Azazel?"

"What, you think his friends all called him _yellow-eyes_? The _demon_, you dolt."

"You said he did something to me," Sam said, and he began lowering his gun without realizing it. "What do you mean?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "_Oh_. You don't know, do you?"

"Know _what_?"

A crooked smile crept its way up her mouth. "About the _demon blood_, Sam. Don't you know what's inside you? What you _are_?"

Sam's heart was pounding in his ears. He swallowed hard. "There's…demon blood…inside of me?"

"Oh, yes. Azazel didn't come to your house by chance that night. He came to drip his blood into your mouth. You have his blood in your veins, Sam. There's no use denying it."

Sam realized he was breathing heavily. "No. No, you're lying. Who—" He brought his gun back up and took a step towards the woman, who didn't move a muscle. "_Who_ _are you?"_

The woman sighed. "All right. Fine. Let's try this again." She lowered her head and closed her eyes, and when she looked up again, they were solid black. "Hello, Sam Winchester. My name is Ruby."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Sorry this took so long to update. School has been crazy, and then there's been SATs and ACTs and...ugh. Life. Ya know. **

**Anyway, Sam and Dean's separate stories continue in this chapter, and it's all I have written up at the moment, so it might be a while yet before the next part is up. I haven't had a chance to proofread it so it there are probably a ton of typos, but I wanted to get it posted asap so I hope you'll forgive me. As always, any and all feedback is welcome and appreciated. **

Sam reacted instinctively, reaching for the duffel he'd left on the bed for the holy water inside of it. Ruby smiled and held up a metal flask with a small smile. "This what you're looking for?"

"A demon," Sam said in disgust. "You're a demon. That's how you know all that stuff—about us, about Azazel."

"Relax, Sam," Ruby said, pocketing the holy water. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not even here for information. Like I said, I just want to talk."

"Then talk," Sam snapped. "Tell me what the hell you're doing here. And why I should trust you for even a second."

"Those powers you've got in your back pocket?" Ruby said. "You're a natural psychic, Sam. Your abilites only been lying dormant because you're scared to touch them. I can help you utilize them. You'll see, Sam, you can't just ignore them. You have to learn to control them—and you have to control the demon blood inside you too."

"Is the demon blood what's causing these visions?"

"Seems that way."

"So why should I believe you? Any of this?"

"Because I can help you save your brother," Ruby said, and Sam froze. Knowing she had his attention, knowing she'd found his weak spot, Ruby pressed on: "I'm the only one who can help you, Sam. I understand what's going on inside you. Regular psychics, they won't be able to do a thing for you. You're going to have to trust me."

"You want me to trust a _demon_?" Sam sneered. "Like hell. Get out of my room."

"Sam, your brother will die if you don't listen to me," Ruby said, louder, more insistent. "There are demons after him. After both of you. I can protect you from them. They want to use you, Sam. There's a—"

"And you _don't_ want to use me?" Sam said. "What's your motive in all of this? You must want something."

She smirked. "I want insurance. And you are the best kind there is. I think if you developed your abilities you could use them to stop all the rest of those pesky demons trying to claw their ways up the hierarchy. You could be useful, Sam."

"To who? You?"

"Maybe. But like I said, there's something in it for you, too."

_Dean_. Sam exhaled slowly, trying to think straight. Working with demons was the last thing he wanted to do, but Ruby knew something about him that Sam didn't understand at all. Maybe…

No. He couldn't do it. He shook his head and brought his gun back up to face Ruby. "I won't do it," he said. "Now get the hell out of here."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Fine," she said. "But I'll find you again, Sam. You'll agree to let me help you eventually. We could make a good team, you know."

And with that, she was gone. Sam sat at the edge of his bed, lowering his face into his hands, and wished at that moment that he had someone at his back. How was he supposed to face all this alone?

He'd thought that it was _over_.

* * *

"Several deaths close by, just a state over," Bobby said, pointing on the map to indicate the trail of the killings. "Not sure what it is, but pretty sure it's something supernatural, because the police have zero leads. Might be something to check out."

"Yeah," Dean said without enthusiasm, swirling the inch of whiskey he still had in the glass in his hand. He drained it and set the glass down on Bobby's desk, gazing down at the path the older man had traced on the map.

"If you want, I could go with you," Bobby offered, but Dean shook his head.

"I guess I need to get out of here anyway," he said. He rolled his neck and sighed. "I've been cooped up here too long." He'd actually only been staying at Bobby's for a couple days, but it had felt like an eternity. Thought he wouldn't admit it, he was dying to get out.

"Right," Bobby said. "Well, here's all the information I've managed to gather on the case. Call me if you have any problems." He handed Dean a manila folder and Dean nodded, leaving the living room to find his duffel.

As Dean drove, he thought about whether it would be smart to work with someone else on a few of these cases at some point or another. Not that he'd had any problems in particular lately, but hunting on his own wasn't the most enjoyable thing.

But that wasn't why he did it. He did the job because he had to, because it was something to do, because someone had to do it, and it might as well be him. Because it was all he know how to do.

And in that way, sometimes he envied Sam for being able to leave the job so easily, for believing there was more out there, for going out and seeking it. He wouldn't have been able to go to college or start a stable relationship or…

It wasn't like he hadn't tried. School hadn't been his thing. Every relationship he'd had had ended in disaster. Hunting was all he had left. Especially now.

Rochester, Minnesota, was quiet and dark when Dean arrived a few hours later, pulling into the nearest motel. He figured this case would be quick, and then he could move on, find something else further away, get lost in the repetition once again.

He hadn't expected the case to be a hell of a lot more complicated than it had originally seemed.

* * *

Cara tossed her phone into her bag and slung it over her shoulder, grabbing her keys off the surface of the bar. The restaurant was dark and practically empty, and she was more than ready to get home. She hadn't eaten practically all day, and her stomach was cramping painfully.

She was heading to the door when it swung open directly in front of her and a girl fairly flew inside, startling Cara, who froze, blinking in surprise.

"Cara," the girl said. "I—um—"

"Hey. Alex." Cara frowned at her friend, recognizing a look of fear—no, terror—on Alex's face. She knew immediately that something was wrong. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Alex stared at Cara through wide eyes, breathing heavily, and then brushed back her long blond hair, clearly trying to compose herself. "I, um, I just…" She smiled faintly, though her eyes still shone with worry. "Sorry. Didn't mean to freak you out. I'm okay."

Cara folded her arms. "C'mon, Alex, you busted in here like the devil is on your tail. What's goin' on?"

"It's probably nothing," she replied hesitantly. She glanced over her shoulder at the door and hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. "I was just headed home. Are you free to leave yet?"

"Yeah. Come on, we'll go together." Cara frowned in concern as she took her friend's arm, leading her outside. Alex had the tendency to get emotional about things, but she was almost constantly cheerful and never acted scared this way.

Alex continued to look over her shoulder every five seconds as they made their way along the darkened streets of the city toward the apartment building they both lived in. She jumped at every loud noise, stuck close to Cara's side and kept her arms crossed tightly across her chest as if attempting to make herself smaller.

"Alex, is someone following you?" Cara asked as they made their way home. "Because if someone tried to hurt you, I swear to god—"

"Cara, please don't go all homicidal," Alex said with a nervous laugh. "I'm fine, really. I just…" She shook her head. "I thought I saw something. Something strange. But I must've been wrong." She fell silent, but Cara thought she heard Alex murmur something under her breath like "I must be going crazy."

_I must be going crazy._

_Screaming. Blood. Laughter. Fire._

_Crazy. Crazy._

Cara shook her head, dislodging a clump of hair that swung in front of her face, and squeezed her friend's arm. "You wanna stay with me for tonight? It might make you feel safer."

"No, no, it's all right," Alex said, quiet enough so it was almost under her breath. Her bright eyes scoured the dark corners of the street, flickering quickly from one point to the next. Worry tightened at the pit of Cara's stomach.

They parted ways at the second floor of the apartment building, and Cara fixed her eyes on Alex's. "Are you _sure_ you're going to be all right? I can stay with you if—"

"I'm okay. Thanks for walking home with me." She waved goodbye and unlocked her door before stepping inside, smiling, and shutting Cara out. She heard the lock click and chewed on her lip, leaving only with great reluctance.

Cara awoke the following morning with the warm knowledge that Sam would be back that day and returning to work. It had only been a couple of days but it hadn't been the same without him—she liked having his warm smile flashing beside her while she did her job.

Although, every time she saw him smile she thought it had a tinge of sadness to it, something she couldn't quite place but wanted to understand. If only he wasn't so damn closed off.

Cara headed for Alex's apartment that morning with two cups of coffee in hand, wanting to make sure her friend was all right after the previous night. She knocked on apartment 34A, calling through the door: "Hey, Lexi! You planning on sleeping the whole day?"

No answer from inside. Cara frowned, noticing that the wood at the edge of the door, near the lock, was cracked and torn, and the door was ajar, just slightly. Pushing on the wood, the door slid open slightly, and Cara held her breath, fear pooling in her stomach, hard and cold.

She made her way inside slowly, looking around, not wanting to know if something had happened to her friend.

She couldn't have been prepared for what she finally did find, and a she dropped her cups of coffee, hands flying to her mouth as a scream tore its way from her mouth.

_Blood. Fire. Screaming. Pleading. Dying_.

Alex lay still on her couch, which was soaked in blood from the gaping wound in her chest.

* * *

"Did you hear anything strange coming from her apartment?"

"No…no, I don't think so."

"You said she was acting anxious before, while you were walking home. Did she tell you what she was worried about?"

"She didn't tell me much. She said she wasn't thinking straight."

"Had she been drinking?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Cara's eyes flickered past the yellow tape blocking off Alex's apartment, over to the blood on the couch. Her stomach turned, and she looked away. She faced the officer again and tried to continue answering the woman's questions, but all she really wanted to do was curl up under some blankets and cry. Or maybe sleep. She'd just lost one of her best friends, and she couldn't get the image of her body out of her head.

She closed her eyes, wondering if she was going to throw up again, as she'd already done twice several hours ago. But as she was considering bolting for the bathroom, just for an excuse to stop talking to the police, a familiar voice spoke from behind her. "Cara?"

She whirled around while the officer was midsentence. "Sam!"

His eyes were soft and concerned and made Cara feel a thousand times better almost instantly. He approached her and clasped her shoulder. "God, Cara, are you all right?" he said. "I heard about what happened, about Alex, I came right over…"

"Yeah, I um…" Along with making her feel comforted, Sam's presence was making her want to burrow into his chest and cry until she forgot about all of this shit. "I'm okay," she said, and her voice broke. She smiled weakly to try and cover it up, but clearly he wasn't buying it.

"You want to go upstairs and talk?" he asked.

He made them both cups of coffee and they sat on Cara's couch, for a while in silence. However, after draining half her mug, Cara began to talk, as though she couldn't help it. She told him about how she'd found her friend, how she knew something was wrong but hadn't done anything to stop it, how she had no family left and had just lost one of the few close friends she'd kept.

All of a sudden she felt so completely, utterly alone. And helpless. She'd tried to become stronger, to fend for herself, but she couldn't even protect the people that mattered. She wanted to keep those people close. But it wasn't working.

"You know," Sam said once she was finished, "I, uh…I lost my dad recently."

Her eyes flew to his face and stayed there, searching. He'd never really talked about his father before.

Sam was surprised he was mentioning this at all. Where his family was concerned, if he slipped up at all, this girl would be running from him, screaming. If she knew that he was the reason his father was dead…

But he kept talking. "I know what it's like to lose someone important," he said. "To have only a few people you can really count on. I never even knew my mother, she died in a house fire when I was just a baby."

"The same fire your brother pulled you out of?" she murmured.

"Yeah. My brother…" Sam laughed shortly, setting his cup down on the coffee table. "My girlfriend passed away too, just recently, so he's all I got left. And we're not even speaking to each other."

"That's…god." Suddenly Cara's pain seemed to dwindle in comparison. Sam had lost nearly everyone that mattered to him and he was all alone. And his girlfriend—no wonder he'd been so closed off towards her.

Sam smiled wanly at her. "It's okay," he said. "You can get past these things, you know. You can't let them beat you."

"Don't I know it," Cara said, raising her eyebrows. "Damn, I've tried my whole life to be strong enough to be on my own, because as tight as I hold onto the people I care about, they all seem to…" She shook her head. "Sorry. I don't know why I'm talking about this bullshit."

"It's not bullshit," Sam said. "I'm here for you, Cara. Seriously."

Cara opened her mouth to make a sarcastic comment, to break some of the tension, but the tears were suddenly welling up beyond her control, and as they spilled over she moved across the couch to lean against Sam's shoulder.

To her surprise, he slid his arm around her, pulling her closer. So she pressed against his chest, hiding her face in his shirt, and let herself cry. She felt warmth inside her just knowing that there was someone willing to be close to her. That there was someone to hold on to.

* * *

Sam knew there was something off about Alex Serville's death, and his suspicions were confirmed once he spoke to the police. Alex's heart had been torn out of her chest, and, as he found out later, a man had died in the exact same way, a couple blocks away.

Sam wanted to punch something when he found this out. He knew exactly what was killing these people, and he knew exactly how to kill it.

But he didn't want to.

He wanted to leave this hunt alone, maybe call Bobby and have him put some other hunter on the case, make someone else do it, because he didn't want to have to deal with a werewolf on top of everything else.

His meeting with the demon, Ruby, hadn't left his mind once since leaving Lawrence. And as his headaches became more frequent, his nightmares more vivid, he wanted to give him and let her teach him how to control this. Because if it was true, and had demon blood inside of him…

It made him all the more desperate to get away from this life—the life that made him different, a freak, a _monster_…the life that seemed to catch up with him no matter where he ran.

So no, with all the other turmoil plaguing him, he had no desire to find and kill a werewolf. But what worried him was that this monster would come after Cara next, and he couldn't let that happen.

So at this point, he figured he didn't have another choice.

He had to get his hands on some silver bullets, though, first…and he needed to figure out who the werewolf was in the first place. He had to do it while protecting Cara, while keeping her in the dark, and keeping those dreams at bay as well…

"Sam?"

Sam looked up, realizing he'd been zoning out while he was supposed to be cleaning tables. The manager of the restaurant, Jeremy Stones, was frowning at him, standing across the table.

"Sorry," Sam said, straightening. "How can I help you, Mr. Stones?"

Jeremy, a late-thirties, dark-skinned man with a round face and broad shoulders, gave Sam a wry smile and understanding seemed to glint in his eyes. "Everyone's kind of distracted lately," he said. "What with all these murders happening in the neighborhood." He laughed without humor. "Never thought I'd have to say something like that."

Sam smiled back just as dryly. "I know what you mean. It sucks, especially for…" He glanced over at Cara and trailed off.

"I wish I didn't have to watch her go through this again," Jeremy murmured. "Especially, after, you know…her family."

Sam's eyes flickered back to the manager. "What do you mean?" he asked quickly.

Jeremy shrugged. "Well, you know she has no family left, right? They all died in a house fire when she was little. She barely escaped, but she lost everyone. Everything. Lived in multiple different foster homes until she turned eighteen and could be on her own." He noticed Sam's shocked expression and frowned. "She told you all this, didn't she?"

"Uh…yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, a little, I just…" He swallowed, thinking about his father's death and how he knew what it was like to lose everything to fire. Everything except…

He pushed away the thought and turned back to Jeremy. "Well, anyway, we're opening in an hour. Is there anything else you needed to talk about?"

"No, I suppose not. Keep on, Sam." He clapped Sam on the shoulder briefly before leaving him be and approaching Cara instead. Sam watched them out of the corner of his eye, watched as Cara smiled brightly at Jeremy, as Jeremy said something to her and she burst out laughing. Sam was struck by how beautiful she looked when she was laughing.

Jeremy touched her shoulder and Sam looked away, feeling as though he was intruding and attempting to kick away the odd twinge of jealousy he suddenly felt. He had no reason to feel that way.

Cara glanced at Sam over Jeremy's shoulder and saw the little crease between his eyebrows that told her he was thinking hard about something. She wondered what was on his mind that had him so distracted that he was wiping the same place on the table over and over.

"Uh…Cara? You listening to me?"

"What?" She quickly returned her gaze to Jeremy's dark eyes. "Sorry."

He grinned and chuckled. "Nobody seems to be able to pay attention to me today. I just asked you if you'd like to go out for a drink tonight."

Cara blinked. It struck her that maybe she should have expected this, but for the moment she found herself speechless. She floundered for an answer while Jeremy continued to smile at her, pleasantly but slightly amused.

"Um…tonight?" Cara said finally.

Jeremy arched one eyebrow and nodded. "Yes, you know…evening, after dark, by moonlight, under the stars, whatever you wish to call it?"

Despite herself Cara cracked a grin. "Yeah, why not? I've got nothing else better to do tonight."

"Good enough for me." Jeremy grinned briefly and then turned away, leaving the confines of the bar and then heading for the back exit. As Cara went back to work the smile slid from her face, but the warm glow remained for a brief time.

Unfortunately, the night was not what she'd intended it to be.

* * *

"Thanks for your time," Dean said with a smile, waving as he made his way back towards his car. Having interviewed the family of the most recent victim, he only felt more frustrated and more confused, because he'd just ruled out the third and last hunch he'd had regarding the case.

Sighing in irritation, he got into the Impala and pulled out his cell phone, dialing Bobby's number.

"What now?" the gruff, equally irritated voice came over the phone and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Don't be such a grouch. You're the one who put me on this case."

"'Cause I thought ya could handle something this simple. What's going on now?"

"Well, it's not a spirit, and it's not a werewolf, and it's not a demon. Whatever did it is solid, hearts aren't missing, and there's been no sulfur. So what the hell am I supposed to do now?"

"Well first of all, tell me everything you've found out."

Dean relayed the information that had been given to him by the people he'd interviewed. None of it was particularly helpful, nor particularly enlightening. Bobby was quiet for a long while once Dean was finished speaking, and Dean could hear the rustling of books and pages as Bobby searched for something to help.

"It's some kind of monster," Bobby said finally. "You said the victims were shredded?"

"Yeah. Completely. No break-in, no sulfur or ectoplasm or indication of _anything_. I'm out of options here, Bobby."

"Any idea where it's going to strike next?"

"Maybe." Dean rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Whatever it is, it seems to be going through members of the same family. It started with this kid, then went for his mother, then the mother's sister…" His fingers raked through his hair. "There's still the father, he works at a bar downtown."

"Well, start there. I'll do a little more research, see what I can dig up. Call you back if I find anything."

"Right." Dean shut off his phone and pocketed it, glancing for the millionth time over at the passenger's seat, wishing he had someone with him who knew how to correctly interpret all this crap, because he was totally lost.

He sighed and shook his head, bringing the impala to life and feeling comforted by its familiar growl. He made his way to the bar, where he spent the good part of the evening, drinking and ignoring the frustration now plaguing him from multiple sources.

"Rough day?" the bartender asked him, pouring him another shot of whiskey. He was a middle-aged man with crinkles around the eyes and a warm smile underneath a bushy beard.

"You could say that," Dean said. He threw back the whiskey and closed his eyes as the alcohol burned down his throat.

"Work or love life?"

"Work, I guess you could say." Dean scratched the back of his neck. "Just a little…stuck. S'nothing important."

"I can relate," another voice said, and Dean turned his head to see another man sitting next to him. He was somewhat skinny, with thick, messy brown hair, but his arms were muscled and there was a stubble on his chin that gave him a rugged kind of look. He smiled wanly at Dean. "Been working on this one thing for ages, but this one guy he…well, he bit the dust. Left all the work to the rest of us."

Dean blinked in surprise at the nonchalance with which this man had just mentioned his coworker's death. "I'm, uh…sorry."

The man shrugged. "Not a big deal, really. We weren't close, he was just pretty essential to the, er, project." The corner of his mouth turned up. "You interested in venting?"

"Don't know if my problems are quite up to par with yours," Dean said, turning back to his drink. He traced his finger along the rim of the glass. "Just hit a dead end with work. And my partner is…well, I'm running it alone right now. So it hasn't been easy."

The man gave a grunt of sympathy, taking a long drink of his beer. They were both silent for a moment, before the man turned to look at Dean and said, "Oh, I almost forgot." He held out one hand. "Jason."

"Dean." Dean shook the man's hand with only a slight amount of reluctance. He got a weird vibe off this guy, and it wasn't just the fact that he grasped Dean's hand for a couple seconds longer than was normal. Dean turned back to his whiskey, tossing back another shot.

He and Jason talked for a while longer, about mostly frivolous things, until it was late and Dean decided to call it a night. He'd considered trying to pick a girl up and had been eyeing a curvy blonde waitress, but the case wouldn't stop popping into his head, and eventually he had to admit that he was just too tired. So he went back to his motel, where he spent an hour trying to research and then eight hours sleeping.

He didn't let his hand stray anywhere near his phone the whole night.

* * *

"Can I walk you home?"

"No, that's all right."

"Come on, Cara, let me. It's late, I just want to make sure you are safe."

Cara smiled at Jeremy and crossed her arms over her chest as a cool wind blew down the street. They'd just left dinner and he was right—it was late, and dark, and walking home alone didn't have much appeal. "All right."

He returned the smile and the three of them made their way down the near-empty, darkened streets, silent. Cara shivered in the cold, but the chills that ran up her arms had less to do with the cold and more, it seemed, to do with an odd feeling of trepidation.

She had no reason to feel uncomfortable. Jeremy had been a complete and utter gentleman all night and she'd had a great time. He was very funny and intelligent, and though she'd been uncertain before she was glad she'd agreed to go on a date with him. But…

She glanced over at him out of the corner of her eye and shivered again. Damn, what was wrong with her?

She jumped involuntarily when he took hold of her elbow, guiding her down an alleyway between two tall buildings. "Here. This way."

"What? Why?"

"Shortcut." She frowned but let herself be pulled down the alley, surprised when Jeremy didn't release her arm. He picked up the pace until he was practically dragging her, and then, before reaching the street, stopped.

Cara nearly bumped into him. The feeling of unease increased. "Jeremy? What are you—?"

In a move so abrupt and swift Cara had no time to react, Jeremy had her pinned to the wall, his arm pressed against her neck, his face inches from hers. Her eyes widened and she gasped in a breath, heart pounding fear into her throat.

"Jeremy, what the hell are you—?"

He covered her mouth with his other hand, and only then did the thought of screaming occur to her. She struggled, but _damn_ he was strong, much too strong, far stronger than he looked—

"Got you right where I want you," he whispered, the corner of his mouth turning up in a sneer. "Just…like…your little friend Alex."

Her heart seemed to skip a beat. _Alex._

"That's right." His hand moved from her mouth to trace along her chin. "Not what you expected, is it?"

_Oh God. I should have seen this coming. I should have known_.

"What did you do to her?" Cara choked.

The smirk widened. Jeremy suddenly looked nothing like himself, with his cruel expression and angry eyes and…oh god…

"Help!" Cara shrieked, finally regaining her senses, but his hand clamped over her mouth again, smothering her cry.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to try anything," he said. "I just want your heart."

He raised his hand, his nails curling out into claws.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I hadn't expected to have this up so soon, but I was struck with a glorious streak of inspiration, so here we go. Not very closely edited, so please forgive any typos. Next update should be up much sooner. Please R&R!**

Sam left the bar late. He'd been glad to cover for Cara, but he was exhausted now. All he wanted to do was go back to his apartment, get some sleep, maybe…

His hand flew to the small of his back as a shout for help reverberated from nearby. His head swiveled around to look down a nearby alley and his hand flew to the small of his back on instinct, where his gun was tucked into the waistband of his pants. He drew the handgun and held it in both hands, making his way down the alley towards whoever had shouted.

He first saw two indistinct figures, bathed in the shadows cast by the two buildings. The smaller of the figures was pressed against one of the two brick walls, pinned there, and as Sam watched, the taller figure raised one arm, a snarl twisting his shaded features, his nails curling into claws.

Sam caught his breath. This was the monster he was looking for, and as he moved closer, both of their faces becoming more distinct, he could see who exactly the werewolf was readying himself to attack.

Sam had always been a naturally good shot. Not as good as Dean and certainly not as good as John, but he was nothing if not stubborn, and when it mattered, Sam would not miss.

Three shots rang out in quick succession, each one hitting its mark exactly where Sam had intended. The pinned girl screamed out from behind the werewolf's muffling hand, cowering away as one silver bullet embedded itself in the monster's head, the next two in its chest. He was still for a moment, blood seeping from the fatal wounds, and then it collapsed, falling on its back to the ground.

Sam lowered his gun and approached the monster, eyes widening as he looked down at it, listening to the terrified girl's gasping breaths. He wondered, as he gazed down at the bloodied face of Jeremy Stones, why she hadn't run away yet.

"S-Sam?"

Well, that explained it.

"Cara?" Sam quickly pulled his gun out of sight, but even in the dark, he knew she'd already seen it. She was staring at him with wide eyes, her gaze not drifting towards the body right in front of her.

He turned to face her, reaching out towards her and then pulling back just as quickly. "Hey. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

She swallowed and shook her head, eyes still huge and locked on Sam's. "You, um…" for the first time her gaze flickered down to his hands. "You have a gun."

"Uh. Yeah." Sam tucked the weapon into the back of his jeans.

"And…he's a…" She raised one trembling hand to her throat, eyes now fixed on the werewolf's body. "What is he, exactly?"

Sam looked up at her warily. Her eyes held his but they were calm—frightened, yes, and confused, and incredulous, but steady. And he realized that she deserved the truth, that she could take it, whatever it was.

"You really want to know?" he asked anyway. "This stuff…Cara, this isn't…"

"Tell me," she said. "Please."

Sam sighed and wound an arm around her shoulders, steering her away from the wall and down the alleyway. "Listen, let's just…go back to your place to talk about this, okay? We should get out of here."

* * *

"So, werewolves, huh?"

"Yeah. Werewolves."

"I didn't think they'd be like that."

"A lot of it isn't what you'd expect."

Cara and Sam sat together on Cara's couch, a blanket draped over Cara's legs, a cup of tea in her hands. She had taken what Sam had told her remarkably well, with the same calm and stability she'd displayed earlier in the alleyway.

"And you," she said. "You said your dad taught you all this stuff? How to…how to defend yourself against these _monsters_?"

"Yeah. How to kill them, really. My brother and I…we were raised like warriors. Like soldiers. Werewolves are just the start of it. Ghosts, ghouls, vampires…it never seems to end, sometimes. That's why I had to…get away."

That was only a small part of it, really, but Sam didn't feel like explaining all that just yet. Instead he let Cara absorb this, his complicated past and his dangerous future, the fact that these creatures existed out there in the darkness.

"You're probably going to run away from me screaming at this point," Sam said with a wry smile. "I wouldn't blame you."

"Is that what you want me to do?" Cara asked with a sharp glance. "Run away from you?"

Sam blinked. "I, uh. No. Of course not. It's just, you're the first person in a long time who's been genuinely important to me besides Dean, and I…well, you'd probably be safer miles away from me, because evil just seems to follow me wherever I go."

Her eyes turned sad. "I know how you feel," she said softly, which was not what he'd been expecting.

He frowned out her. "What?"

She snapped her mouth shut, looking away and shaking her head minutely. "Never mind. I just…I get it. That's all."

Her jaw was set, her eyes fixed in front of her, so Sam let it drop. He smiled gently. "Thanks. It's nice to have someone there, you know? Especially since…" His smile faltered and faded and his voice trailed off, eyes sinking down to the comforter draped across Cara's legs. He picked at it unconsciously, trying not to think of his brother, not knowing where he was, the wound left by how they'd left things. One of these days, he's set things right. He would.

In the meantime… "I can tell you more, if you want," Sam said. "Unless, you know…this freaks you out too much."

She shook her head with a soft smile. "Doesn't freak me out. Well, it does, but I want to know more. Please, tell me."

Not to refuse an invitation, Sam smiled, and told her.

* * *

Vampires.

Freaking _vampires_. One maybe Dean could have handled, but he hadn't even expected one of them, let alone the group of six he'd stumbled upon. And now, lucky him, he was tied up in the middle of their next, sporting a bleeding lip, a possible concussion, and a bruised ego.

Also he was pissed off. And normally that would make him dangerous, but he couldn't exactly move, and his machete—only weapon against vamps—was where he couldn't quite reach it.

One of the vampires leaned down in front of him so they were face-to-face and trailed her long, blood-red fingernails down his jaw. She smiled vindictively as he scowled. "Dean Winchester," she purred. "My family and I are so glad you were stupid enough to drop in on our little nest."

"You guys cover your tracks well," Dean said, lips curling into a sneer. "I had no idea you were behind all those killings." He inched the ropes down his wrists, trying to free his hands a little to reach for the knife in his waistband.

"Oh, yes, but we wanted to lead you to that town. It's not just the demons who're after you, Winchester. All the monsters want a piece of you." She smiled at his frown, scraping her fingernails across his cheek. "And not just you, but your sweet, helpless, baby brother, too."

Dean stiffened visibly, and she chuckled.

"Hit your sweet spot, didn't I?" she murmured. "You must have noticed we've been going through members of families, haven't you? Once we're done with you, we'll be going after your brother."

Dean strained against the ropes tying him down. Deep-instilled older-brother protectiveness swelled unexpectedly in him, lowering his voice to a threatening growl. "I swear to God, if you touch him—"

She laughed and straightened suddenly, stretching her arms above her head, disregarding his murderous expression. "Please, Dean. If we really wanted to kill little Sammy, we would have done it already." She smirked. "We've just been keeping tabs on him. Demons making sure he's taking steps in the right directions. But we're a little worried about you."

"What about me?"

"Can't have you getting in the way." She swept forward abruptly, taking hold of Dean's throat in a firm grasp, red lips and sharp teeth suddenly inches from the exposed skin of his jaw. "And you've been a bit too nosy."

Dean's panicked thoughts spun to the demons he'd gone after in the previous months, how they'd offered him information as he'd exorcised them. He'd never taken them up on it, but they often said things like _I can tell you what the demons have planned for you and your brother_. _Let me go and I'll tell you who's after you_.

"You…the demons…they've got a plan for me and Sam," Dean said, struggling to stay calm as the vamp's lips brushed his skin. His fingers brushed the waist of his jeans. _Fucking finally_. Just a little more… "If you take me out of the equation, what happens to the _plan_?"

She chuckled, fingers tightening on his neck. "Ah. The _plan_. You're not necessary for that, Dean." He felt her grin against his cheek. "Sam, on the other hand…"

Dean's thoughts were racing, but at the moment his worries were on the teeth that were inches away from burying in his flesh. His hand closed around his knife and he opened it, keeping his movements as subtle as possible. "At least—urgh—buy me dinner first," he said as the monster's lips moved lower, nose trailing along his skin. He sawed at the ropes, desperately, quickly.

She laughed. "Don't worry. I just like to play with my food a little before I dig in." Just another few seconds…but she was already drawing back and opening her mouth, teeth elongating into sharp, dazzlingly white fangs. Dean froze at the sight, knife almost slipping out of his hands, and dammit, he wasn't going to be able to free himself in time—

A shot rang out.

The vampire jolted as the bullet penetrated her flesh, and she blinked in surprise, turning. Dean resumed his sawing at the ropes, grateful for the distraction, and craned his neck to see who it was.

Bobby stood in the doorway, holding a gun, expression calm. The vamp hissed at him, and while she was trying to decide who to kill first, Dean made a last, desperate swipe at the ropes, and cut himself free.

He made a lunge for his machete and his fingers closed around it just as the vampire was turning towards him, hissing again, more viciously. He swung with the knife and it made contact with her neck.

Once she was dead, Dean stepped over her body and made his way towards Bobby. "How'd you find me?" he asked.

"A _thank you_ would be nice," Bobby said, raising his eyebrows, and Dean grinned sheepishly. "Your GPS," Bobby explained. "Took out a coupla vamps on the way, saving your ass. How many of them are left?"

"Three," Dean said. "We taking 'em out or getting the hell out of dodge?"

"Getting out," Bobby said. "These sons of bitches are strong. We might be able to take them, but not all at once. We can come back with backup."

* * *

Cara hadn't intended it to fall asleep against Sam on the couch, but she wasn't exactly complaining, and besides, they were both out before it was even midnight.

It was still dark when Sam awoke.

He jerked violently and sat up, which jolted Cara where her head was resting on his chest. She looked up at his face, disoriented, and found him pale and shaking, breathing heavily as his wide eyes stared directly ahead, unseeing.

"Sam?" she murmured. She sat up, frowning. "You all right? What's wrong?"

Sam's eyes flickered to her and his gaze lost some of its panic. "Cara..."

"Nightmare?"

Sam swallowed, and for one awful moment as he stared at her it looked like he was going to cry. He pressed one hand against his eyes, massaging, and he groaned, a pained, exhausted sound. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

"Sam, talk to me," Cara said. "Please."

Sam lowered his hand and leaned back against the couch, exhaling. "It's nothing."

"Sam, I'm no stranger to nightmares." Cara smiled gently. "It helps to talk. What was it about?"

Sam looked at her with a hard gaze for the longest moment, and then his eyes softened and the sudden, stark fear and vulnerability there surprised her.

"I've just been having this...dream," Sam began. He cleared his throat. "It's about Dean. In it, he...dies. Every time." He hesitated again. "A demon kills him."

A brief flicker of surprise flickered over Cara's face before she adeptly disguised it. "How long have you been having this dream?" she asked.

"A few months." Sam breathed in and out slowly, trying to calm his racing heart and quell his splitting headache. "Listen, Cara, I...I know it's crazy, but...I have this—this _feeling_—that it's going to happen." He glanced over at her cautiously, sure this would be one thing too many for her to deal with and she'd be running from him at any moment.

Instead, she pursed her lips and looked down at the quilt covering her legs. "Crazy..." she murmured. She swallowed hard and met his eyes, and Sam wondered if he'd imagined the fear he saw lurking deep within them. "I'm no stranger to crazy, either, Sam. Even before the whole werewolves and demons thing." She hesitated and then took his hand, lacing her fingers with his. "Maybe it's time you contact your brother, Sam. It's the only way you'll know he's safe."

"I know. I know, it's just, he's—we're—it's kind of—"

"Complicated." She smiled mildly. "I know."

* * *

Though Sam was happy with the way things with Cara were developing—a close, steady friendship for now, but eventually maybe something more—the nights he'd spent in his own apartment since the warm, safe one he'd spent at hers, felt cold and empty by comparison, and he found himself lying awake the majority of those hours, staring at the ceiling, terrified of the nightmares coming back to him and reminding him of what could be coming.

He found himself glancing towards the other side of the room more and more often, expecting to see the comforting shape of his brother underneath a pile of blankets on the other bed, but there was no such shape, no such presence, and no feeling of protection and warmth that came with it. Sleeping with Cara had given him the same warm feeling, the same sensation of comfort, but Sam knew this nagging feeling wouldn't go away, he wouldn't be able to sleep soundly, until he talked to Dean.

Because the nightmares kept coming. And eventually he couldn't avoid it anymore. He had to do _something_.

He fished something out of his dresser—a slip of paper he'd buried down there months earlier, tried to forget about, and which had been burning a hole in his mind ever since. On it was written a phone number.

He punched the number into his phone before he could lose his nerve, and pressed it to his ear as he listened to it ring.

"Sam." A voice answered on the first ring.

Sam exhaled. "Ruby. I need your help."

* * *

Dean told Bobby everything the vampire had told him. He also told Bobby everything he had discovered from the demons. The monsters. The tracking. The _Plan_. Him. Sam.

"I'll be honest, son, this whole thing is way over my head," Bobby said once Dean was done. "These guys want you out of the way but they want Sam for something? It don't make any sense."

"You're telling me," Dean downed the shot of whiskey he'd been swirling in his glass. He swallowed hard at the burn. "Something weird's going on, though. They're planning something, something with Sammy, and I can't—" He stopped, realizing he hadn't said Sam's name since his brother had left, and he certainly hadn't said it like _that_. With that goddamn…protectiveness. He glanced at Bobby and saw the old man's eyes had softened, watching him carefully.

"I know," Bobby said. "If it involves Sam."

Dean clenched one hand into a fist, feeling his stomach twist into a knot at the truth of those words. Even after all this time, even after everything, if it was about Sam… then it was personal. Dean wouldn't let anything happen to his little brother.

So he'd do something. He just didn't know _what_.

He sat down heavily on the couch in the living room and scrubbed both hands over his face. "Okay," he sighed. "So we gotta…we gotta figure out what exactly is going on. Get intel, that kind of thing. Figure out what the hell these demons are up to."

Bobby nodded. "I'll send out my feelers, see what the rest of the hunter community knows. In the meantime, Dean…you know what I'm going to say."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not calling Sam, Bobby."

"He needs to know what's going on, son. Maybe he knows something. He probably misses you, you know."

Dean glared at Bobby, then gave another long-suffering sigh and stood up. "I'm gonna go get some sleep. S'been a long day."

Bobby sighed in response, rising as well and approaching the phones. "Stupid, stubborn, son of a bitch," he muttered as he reached for the phone, punching in Rufus's number. An affectionate smile crawled over his face. "Just like his father."

* * *

"Take a deep breath and relax, Sam."

"I am, Ruby, shut up."

"You aren't. You can't do this if you're so distracted. Stop letting whatever's bothering you take your mind off what you're trying to do. You have to let this happen, Sam. You have to let your instincts take over."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Keep your damn eyes closed. Sam, you have the ability within you. If you'd just give into it, just let it take over, you'd have a lot more luck with this."

"Easy for you to say."

"You can feel it, can't you, Sam? The power? But you're scared of it. You don't want to let it overtake you."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Look, I get it. It's hard. But you can do it. Just let your body and mind relax. Let yourself feel it. You'll understand."

Sam swallowed and closed his eyes again, still a bit uncomfortable sitting with his eyes closed face-to-face with a demon he didn't really trust. This power—she was right. He _could_ feel it, and it _did_ scare him. But that's why he'd called her. Because he'd felt it growing over the past few weeks, and he worried he soon wouldn't be able to fully control it.

He exhaled slowly and did what she told him. He relaxed. He let his mind clear and open and stretch, allowing this invasive, foreign presence to encroach. He could almost see it as it drew closer—it was dark, and it was strong, too strong for him to fully hold back even if he wanted to.

He tensed as it first breached him, sending tendrils through his mind, snaking their way through his thoughts. His hands twitched and suddenly he could feel the power in them, could feel the abilities they possessed. He inhaled sharply.

"That's it," Ruby encouraged softly. "Let it in, Sam." Sam heard the clink of metal on metal. "Open your eyes."

He opened them, still feeling this power coursing through his veins. He stayed relaxed, kept his mind fluid and open, though only allowing tendrils of this power to snake their ways through him. Even so, it pulsed solidly within him, desperate to be released, to be utilized.

Ruby held out the spoon in the palm of her hand. "You can do this, Sam."

Sam took a deep breath in and out through his nose and concentrated. He built up a surge of power within him, felt it pounding, straining to be released, and then focused it on the spoon, like she'd told him.

He let go of the power, and it felt like the breath had been punched out of him. The spoon lifted a few inches in the air, shuddered, and then dropped to the floor again.

Sam pressed one hand to his head. "Dammit."

"You're getting there, Sam," Ruby said, picking up the spoon again. She smiled. "You're really making progress. You just have to work, once you've built it up, to release the energy slowly. It's all about control. If you let it out in a burst, all you'll get is a brief display of power like you just saw.

Sam groaned, massaging his temples.

"The headaches will fade, once you get used to it," Ruby said. "Your mind will become stronger, and you'll be able to do this without pain. I promise. You just have to keep working at it. And once you can do this, you'll be able to control your visions as well."

Sam nodded and lowered his hand. "Okay. Let's try again."

It should have scared Sam that he could so easily manipulate objects, should have freaked him the fuck out, actually, but it was already weird enough that he had visions of the future—he was no stranger to the bizarre. He just wondered what Dean would say if he ever found out.

* * *

Two weeks later, and Dean still hadn't managed to find anything helpful to this whole demon thing. Neither had Bobby. They were back to square one, no idea what this _plan_ was, no idea of what they wanted Sam for. There were whispers through the hunter community, but nothing more than that.

Dean had even gone to see Ellen and Ash at the Roadhouse. Though Ash had said he'd look and get back to Dean—and if anyone could find _anything_ useful, it would be Ash—Dean was getting very frustrated.

And then it got worse. Much worse.

He collapsed into bed after a particularly long day of demon-interrogating and, later, exorcising, hoping for a long, uninterrupted night's sleep. He should have known, with the way things had been going lately, that that would not be the case.

He was jolted from a warm dream of silk sheets and a gorgeous brunette to the sound of his singing phone. He grimaced and glanced at the time—three fifteen in the morning.

He took the phone from his bedside table and glanced at the number to see who was calling him at this god-forsaken time—whoever it was had better have a fucking good reason—and his eyes widened as he read the caller ID.

His finger hovered over the reject button for a full ten seconds before moving over to the other side and accepting the call. He pressed the phone to his ear, sitting up, fully awake now. "Sam?"


End file.
